rain down on me

BCamp kiddies watching us crazies paint the World Map, July 2011  

August in Mali means rain. And by rain, I mean RAIN. The seasons in Mali are rainy season and dry season, and then dry season is split into cold season (which I am waiting for with the excitement and anticipation of a five year old waiting for Christmas morning) and hot season (which I dread the way most dread the first day of school or the dentist, I mean it gets hotter?!). But in August it rains. Of course this year is a little wacky and it hasn’t been raining as often, but when it does something utterly crazy happens (and if you’ve ever lived in Seattle you’ll die) people stop. Seriously, people stop what they are doing and go inside. And if it rains for over ten minutes or hard, well then forget it. The workday is over. No more market, no more street food (tear). Call it a day.

I kind of love it.

I mean it’s nutty. But right now, it’s nice to be able to hide out. I sneak away to my room, curl up on my “this bed is so big I can’t believe I’m in Africa” bed and just get a chance to breathe.

But it also gives me a lot of time to think. In between the Disney movies, Facebook stalking, and old classic book reading (I’m currently reading The French Lieutenant’s Woman), there is always still time to think.

Life is crazy.

Ok, so that maybe is stating the obvious. And it’s a big subject, contemplating life as it rains, but you know, sometimes it comes to that.

I was skyping my parents the other day (skype maybe the greatest thing to ever happen to international travel, like ever, at least if you like your family and friends) and talking about how I feel more American in Mali than I ever felt in America. It’s true and it’s weird too, to recognize this different aspect of personal identity that never really dawned on you before. I guess it just goes to show how much can easily be taken for granted. 

During training we did all kinds of exercises about culture and values and identity and it was easy to list things that matter to Americans: democracy, freedom, individualism, equality, education, time…I mean the list could go on. And from an objective standpoint that was something I could easily do. But sitting there on my bed, wishing I had a pantry of food to choose from, I have come to realize, those things matter to me as well. It’s not totally unusual, I mean I was born and raised in the US, my Dad is retired military, I’ve lived on military bases, celebrated the 4^th of July with gusto, and studied the history since I was 5. And here I am, about 3500 miles from Washington DC and I can’t run away from being American.

So what’s an American do in Mali? A place that has different values, customs, looks. I stick out. I don’t look like my family or my neighbors. I have funny skin, I talk like a 2 year old (and that is sometimes insulting to the 2 year old), I read a lot, I go to bed really early, I cook funny things like mac and cheese (and I add peas to make it a “nutritious” meal…oh it’s a staple). And I run. Like just because. I’m ridiculous. (And yes, I realize some of that is just me, not all Americans climb into bed before their three year old sister, but whatever…you get the point.)

It’s the tall order of the Peace Corps. To assimilate to Malian culture without loosing your American-ness. To adapt. To learn. And to share. It’s not a one way street, I am supposed to and wanting to share my thoughts and ideas and culture with as many people who are willing to listen me try to butcher their language or French. 

Sure, some of it will come. I mean I only just had my two-week-at-site-celebration. In the meantime, it’s just crazy.  

And I know it’s not just Mali. Life swerves and hits hard every second, it knows no boundary. Life is the greatest equal opportunity employer ever. Sometimes it hurts with the power of a thousand knives and you are left completely overwhelmed and unprepared. Sometimes it surprises and brings joy so great and powerful you can feel it in your bones and know at that moment, this beauty is the meaning of it all.

So we search for the beauty. I go on in hope that one day the kid down the street will call me by my name and not just scream “Toubab” (which translates to “foreigner” or “white person”), or that the local store owner will crack a smile at me, or that at some point I will understand the people I work with when they ask me something beyond “How are you” in French or Bambara.

I just go on. Because one day it all will come. One day the reasons behind me coming to Mali will blur with the daily life and the good things that have come out of me being in Mali. Soon it will just be. For that’s the greatest irony. It doesn’t matter the reasoning or rationale about life and it’s mystery. At the end of the day, life just IS.

I was texting a great friend of mine who is a Goodfella and living in Segou. She kind of randomly texts me at night and says “you know, someday soon, not tomorrow, and not the next day, but soon, this is going to be over and we are all going to sit at some nice restaurant at a reunion talking about peace corps and saying remember when x happened?” she continued, “so I guess we had better enjoy it because if nothing else, I want to get to the day when I get to see everyone in America in American clothes!”

She’s right. These two years are going to be the longest and shortest two years. They are going to redefine so much about me. And in so many aspects, they already have.

So I lay back down. Put my head on my smelly pillow and put on a movie. And as the rain comes outside, for some brief moments I get to remember that I am Mary, and for right now—whatever that means, and whatever happens next—that is just enough.

When life gives you lemons, yell back “you got any tequila to go with that?”